I’m not a very open person.
Actually, scratch that. I’m not an open person at all. I
don’t like to share feelings and thoughts with others, lest I be judged for
perceived childish, silly, or plain foolish ideas and likes. But in this
moment, my head is telling me I need to write this and, for once, I agree with
it.
I suffer from depression and anxiety. For how long, I don’t
even know anymore. I take medicine now and have gone back into therapy. But in the past and even now, it’s caused me nothing but trouble. It’s caused me to
have no friends, very limited social interaction, and a whole lot of pain. And
the only person I can blame for these things is myself.
I don’t share this because I want pity and consoling. I can
do that on my own, thank you very much. I share this because this is part of my
recovery. This is me realizing that I’ve hurt everyone. I’m not always the
victim in this situation, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. And I don’t
blame anyone for not really wanting any contact with me. For not understanding
why I couldn’t just reply to things or be more social.
I don’t post this with the expectation that I can rebuild
what’s been broken; that people would even remember who I am. I post this
because the small amount of world that this reaches should know of what
destruction depression and anxiety can cause. That we should be more open in
talking about these afflictions and how serious they can be.
But most importantly, I post this for me. This is the
scariest thing I could admit about myself. But it doesn’t make me broken. It
doesn’t make me a horrible person. It makes me a person working on herself.
That she’s an okay person with good and bad qualities. Some of those can change
and some of those will never. I may never stop suffering from this. But that
can’t stop me from trying to fight it. From trying to claw and scratch my way
from the bottom to have some idea of what potential I could have.
It still won’t make me a open person.
